


One Week in July

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: 1804, F/M, Heavy Angst, New York City, Post-Duel, duel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9927650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: "The simple act of breathing seemed overwhelming. The crowd of people pressed into the tiny bedroom felt stifling. She couldn’t do this. Madly, she considered running from the room, outside to…to…she didn’t know where. Her whole world was lying in the bed before her. Her world was fading, slipping through her fingers."Hamilton dies, and Eliza must find a way to keep going.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is one of the most upsetting things I've ever written. Apologies in advance.

The early morning light had just begun to creep through the divide in the thick curtains of her bedroom when Eliza opened her eyes. The baby hadn’t yet begun screaming, all her children still snug in their beds. She inhaled and tried to enjoy the brief moment of peace. More miraculously still, she felt a warm arm slung across her back. Her husband was still abed beside her. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. He was always up before the dawn: writing, reading, working, thinking, pacing his office manically. Carefully adjusting herself so she was facing towards him without removing his arm, she was surprised to see his eyes wide open and staring at her. The dark blue against his pale face in the morning light was mesmerizing. She reached out slowly, dragging a finger over his chiseled cheekbone. So handsome, she thought, even now, after over twenty years of marriage.

A small smirk curled at the edges of his lips.

“Hi,” he muttered.  

“Hi,” she whispered back. “What are you doing?”

“Watching you sleep,” he answered.

“Mm, a worthwhile endeavor for your great intellect.”

“It is.”

She rolled her eyes and pushed closer to him, pillowing her head on his chest. He held her gently, his hand absently stroking at the small of her back. Eliza inhaled deeply, soaking in the smell of him, the quiet of the morning. A bird sang outside. A breeze must have taken up to cool the summer morning, because a tree was tapping rhythmically at the window.

“I love being in the country,” she told him, for perhaps the millionth time.

She felt his lips press against the crown of her head. “Me, too.”

With her ear pressed to his chest, she heard his stomach give a sour sounding gurgle. He shifted uncomfortably. Frowning, she placed her hand to his belly, stroking tenderly as she adjusted to look up at him. The reason  he was awake but still abed was suddenly clear.

“Again?” she asked, worried.

He nodded.

He looked exhausted, like he could fall asleep in an instant, but his eyes remained open, staring at an unremarkable point of their bedroom. His stomach had been unsettled for months now. For the most part, he seemed to push through the discomfort, but lately it had seemed to grow worse. He had started skipping meals and occasionally lying down at odd times of day.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner last night,” she remarked. She hadn’t commented when a servant had taken away his almost full plate of lamb, not wanting to embarrass him in front of guests, but she’d taken notice.

“It was a bit too rich for me,” he said lightly.

“I can speak to them about preparing blander meals,” she reminded him. It wasn’t the first time she’d made the suggestion.

“I don’t see why everyone should be forced to eat unappealing mush for my benefit,” he answered predictably.

She huffed at his stubbornness. He laughed, the chuckle rolling through his chest and midriff, the most pleasing sound and sensation.

“Oh, my dearest Betsey, I don’t know how you put up with me.” A smile lit his eyes as he spoke.

She gave his stomach another gentle rub before sliding her arm around him to embrace him. “I love you,” she told him. A simple truth that conquered all his sins. Oh, how she loved him.

His beautiful eyes turned melancholy, the smile leaching from his face. Perhaps his thoughts had also turned to all the things he had been forgiven for due to that basic truth. She didn’t want him to think of those things. Not on this perfect morning they were sharing.

She craned her neck up to kiss the corner of his mouth. The edge lifted very slightly beneath her lips. Encouraged, she pressed another kiss to the other corner, gratified when it too lifted slightly. A smile again graced his face.

A grimace quickly stole its place as his stomach gave another displeased rumble.

“Mama!” a high pitched demand sounded from the nursery.

Alexander laughed again. “That was pleasant while it lasted,” he commented.

“Mm,” she sighed, pushing herself up. She forwent the robe hanging on the stand by the bed, the morning already warm. As she moved around their bed, she saw him pushing himself up as well, and paused at the bedside to favor him with a hard look.

“What?” he asked, all innocence. All the blue- eyed innocence in the world couldn’t cover that his eyes were bruised and his face was pale to the lips.

“Stay,” she directed firmly. “You’re not well. Rest, try to get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

He sighed at her, but did as she demanded, sliding back against the pillows. “It was better when you were here,” he muttered.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Mama!” the little voice demanded again.

She let her hand brush the side of his face, his morning stubble rough against her palm, before she pulled open the door and faced the day.

 

~*~

 

She was efficiently laying the silverware for the afternoon meal when she heard footsteps on the stairs. The sound was faint over Angelica picking out notes on the piano, but twenty years of motherhood had made her attuned to these sorts of noises. Her first thought was that one of the boys had snuck away early from their studies.

Little Phil was still sitting a few feet from her, engrossed in his blocks. She glanced over at Eliza and saw her staring wide eyed at her older sister. Definitely one of the boys, then, she determined. Moving towards the foyer, she fixed a stern glare on her face, only to find herself face to face with her husband.

He was fully dressed, now, and looked slightly less ill than he had this morning. He smiled when he saw her, palms facing out in a show of surrender. “Hello, my darling wife,” he greeted.

She couldn’t help smiling back at him. “Husband,” she replied. “I thought I told you to rest.”

“And rest I did, my dear Eliza. Now I find myself a little hungry, and I hoped to join my family for dinner,” he explained.

“Papa!” Little Eliza squealed from the parlor. She ran past Eliza, her little arms upheld in the universal gesture for ‘lift me.’

“And hello to you, little angel,” he grinned, stooping down and lifting her high into the air. He settled her on his hip and moved into the parlor. Eliza sighed and followed, moving to finish preparing the table for the meal. Alexander was sitting at the piano beside Angelica, with Eliza in his lap, tapping at keys in harmony with his elder daughter.  Phil had abandoned his block tower in favor of staring at the three, she noted absently as she went back to her work.

Another few minutes, and she went to the staircase to call the boys down to eat. The stampede of shuffling footsteps told her they’d heard. She made her way back through the parlor. “Dinner,” she repeated to the trio at the piano.

“All right,” Alexander sighed, looking almost as put out as Angelica at having to move. “Come along, my darling daughters.”

Little Eliza was carried into the dining room on her father’s hip once more. Eliza nearly scolded him for doing so (she’d told him enough times not to spoil the girl), but bit her tongue. He seemed in such good spirits today, despite his discomfort. Let him carry his baby girl around, she decided, if only for today.

“Papa!” William exclaimed as he hurried in, always the first for food. Alex, James and John followed at a much more reasonable pace.

Eliza huffed at seeing her husband’s name sake with a smudge of ink on his cheek, and dabbed at it with a cloth, much to Alex’s annoyance. He tried ducking away, but she held him firm with a stare.

“You weren’t at breakfast, Papa,” she heard John comment behind her as they all took their seats.

“That’s because I was upstairs in bed,” he answered.

“Why?” William asked.

“I had a sick tummy,” he told the six year old.

“Are you all better now?”

Eliza turned to see him nodding as he took a sip of wine. She let her eldest son free to sit beside his father, and took her own chair at the head of the table. A maid brought in their first course, serving Alexander first, then Eliza, then each of the children. With no guests to entertain, they were eating earlier and less elaborately than usual.

“Now, tell me, how are your studies going?” Alexander asked.

The meal passed pleasantly enough, each of the boys telling their father what they had been learning that morning. Eliza watched her husband take two bites of his meal, then pick it apart, and spend the rest of the meal moving the food around on his plate. He was obviously still not well, but again she bit her tongue. He had rested all morning, was trying to eat something, and he seemed to be enjoying the time with the children. She’d let it be.

They finished their meals, the maid coming back to start clearing their places, and Eliza announced, “All right. Time to go back to your studies.”

“Well, wait.”

Every eye at the table locked onto Alexander, the boys frozen half out of their seats where they had been obeying her instruction.

He laughed warmly at their startled expressions. “I just thought, it’s such a lovely day outside, and I’m going to have to spend the whole of next week in the city…perhaps we could all go and take the air.”

“Really?” William asked, breathless with anticipation. His little blue eyes turned to his mother, as though waiting for her quash the whole idea thoroughly.

She looked at her husband fondly and shook her head. There were chores to be done, books to be read…and yet, it was a fair day outside, not too hot for early July. He’d be gone all week. And he seemed so pale and tired. How could she deny him?

“Yes, all right. Let’s go outside and sit in the garden.”

~*~

 

That afternoon was one of the best Eliza could recall. The children ran, playing games, shouting. Eliza had brought a book, but ended up watching as her husband fought off four of her sons in a game of pirates. Angelica had even joined in for a time, looking more bright and present than at any other time in the past two years.

She’d gone inside long enough to pack some food into a basket and bring it back out with a blanket. They ate a picnic supper. She’d never seen her children look so happy. 

As the sun began to sink behind the trees, they all laid in the grass and watched the stars come out. Alexander told stories of thrilling adventures from the war (heavily edited) at William’s request.  When little Phil’s eyes began to fall closed, she pushed herself up with a groan.

“I’m going to take the little ones inside,” she interrupted the story, collecting Eliza and the baby. “William,” she commanded when he made no move to join her.

“But Mama,” he pleaded. “I want to hear the story. I’m not a baby like Phil.”

“It’s fine, dearest. We’ll be in shortly,” Alexander assured her. William’s groan prompted him to add, “Or we could all go inside now.”

Crickets chirped merrily in the complete silence that followed. She saw her husband’s grin grow wide in the moonlight as he picked up the story where he’d left off. The sound of his voice followed her inside.

She tucked the children in and began to change for bed when she heard the rest of her family trooping up the stairs. Alexander closed the door to their bedroom with a click, the sounds of their children readying for bed dulled behind the wood. He slid off his jacket, undid his cravat, then removed his stockings, shirt and breaches. Just as he was pulling his night shirt on, he looked back to see her watching and winked rakishly.

She flushed like a virgin. Lord, the effect he had on her.

When he slid into bed beside her, she settled close at his side, pillowing her head on his chest once more.

 

~*~

 

The next day, Sunday, was equally blissful.

Hamilton woke at his usual time with no complaints of ill health. He still looked pale to Eliza’s eye, and he didn’t seem to have much of an appetite, but he’d insisted he was feeling much recovered. He read the church service to the children after breakfast and then brought them all out to the garden once more. Again, they stayed out until dark, playing, laughing, looking up at the night sky to watch the stars come out.

“That was a lovely day,” she sighed against him when they retired to bed once more. “We should do that every Sunday.”

He tensed a little in her arms, but relaxed a second later and agreed, “Yes. Yes, we should.”

 

~*~

 

He had already left for the city when she awoke the next morning. The boys had gone with him. The house felt too quiet with them gone.

 

~*~

 

Ten o’clock Wednesday morning, a knock sounded on the front door. Not expecting visitors, Eliza left the little ones on the floor in the parlor and made her way into the foyer to answer the door. William Bayard stood on the other side, his hat in his hands, worrying at the fabric as he shifted from foot to foot.

“Mr. Bayard?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

“Mrs. Hamilton. I’ve been asked to summon you at once,” he replied, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Well, yes, ma’am. Your husband…he’s…he’s taken ill. His stomach, you see. Spasms. The doctor is with him, but…well…he’s asking for you.”

Asking for her? Worry was gnawing at her insides now as she nodded.

“Please, come inside. I’ll collect the children and be ready momentarily.”

Mr. Bayard did as she asked, standing awkwardly in the foyer as she rushed to collect Philip, Eliza and Angelica. She had them ready to leave within ten minutes, and the coach was underway by ten fifteen. She held Philip close to her breast as her mind raced.

He’d been ill that weekend. Perhaps she should have insisted he spend Sunday in bed, rather than running around with the children. Oh, but it had been such a lovely few days. He’d seemed so happy. She couldn’t regret that.

Perhaps, then, she should have insisted he stay home on Monday. Not that it would have done any good. He’d crawl to the courtroom on his hands and knees to avoid disappointing a client.

Perhaps she could have joined him in the city. At least she could have tended to him when he came home in the evenings.

She took a deep breath. She’d be by his side soon, and she wouldn’t leave it again. No matter how much she hated the city, she’d stay with him. How ill he must be, to be calling for her? Missing work, being tended to by a doctor? She closed her eyes, willing the coach to move faster.

It was nearly noon when the coach made its way up a crowded New York street, clattering to a halt outside Mr. Bayard’s home. She looked at him, confused. She’d been sure she’d be going to the townhouse they kept in the city.

“He…he was brought here…after….” Mr. Bayard told her vaguely, voice trailing off into silence as he disembarked the coach and helped Angelica down, then Little Eliza, then finally her.

She went inside, a feeling of foreboding sweeping over her as she crossed the threshold.

“Eliza.”

Her sister, Angelica, was in the parlor, her eyes wet as she reached for little Phil.

“I came as soon as I heard. John’s collecting the boys from school. Don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll sort it, dearest. He’s strong.”

Panic, that’s what the new feeling in her chest was. Pure panic. The adrenaline rush that had accompanied the news that her son was dying from a bullet to the side. What illness was this, that had Angelica rushing to her side? Surely, something more than stomach spasms.

“Where?” she managed to ask.

“Upstairs, ma’am,” Mr. Bayard informed her.

She was shaking, her heart pounding in her chest as she hurried up the stairs. The door to a large second-floor bedroom stood ajar, and she could see Doctor Hosack moving inside the room.  She pushed inside, her eyes landing immediately on her husband.

Pale…so pale…paler than he’d been on Sunday when she’d last seen him. His beautiful blue eyes fluttered open, the corners of his lips lifting just slightly when he saw her. The ghost of his perfect smile.

He swallowed, then tried to speak, his lips moving but no sound coming out. He swallowed again, then managed, “Eliza. My Eliza.”

“Alexander,” she whispered. She moved to his side without thinking, seating herself on the bed, reaching for his face. She stroked his cheek, her palm quickly becoming sticky with his sweat. He was sweating so, but she didn’t feel a fever. Surely, if he was so ill, he’d have a fever?

Her hand moved down to his middle, stroking it tenderly as she had that weekend when he’d complained of an upset stomach. Far from relaxing at her touch, he tensed violently, swallowing down what appeared to be a scream.

“No, madam,” Doctor Hosack shouted, pulling her away.

“It’s all right,” the doctor was saying. He pulled back the blankets. “Let me check it. Make sure it’s not bleeding. You’re all right, General.”

Bleeding. God in heaven. The doctor moved to the side a bit, giving her a clear view. There was a hole in Alexander’s stomach. Two inches at her estimation, right in his belly, by his ribs. An ugly, gaping hole.

A puddle of blood had been hastily wiped up from the floor by the bed. The metallic coppery scent overwhelmed her nostrils as she stared at it, as if her sense of smell had only just caught up with her eyes. In the dim light, she’d missed it at first. Now, the dark stain beneath the doctor’s feet was all she could see. She’d stood in it when she was at his side. Blood likely stained her shoes.

He’d been shot.

Just like…just like….

She’ll never be sure, but she thinks she may have screamed. She certainly produced some kind of sound, because the good doctor looked at her with wide, concerned eyes. He started speaking to her, seemed to be attempting to calm her. Nothing could calm her. Nothing could make this all right. Her husband…her husband….

“Eliza,” his voice cut through the haze of her thoughts. It sounded stronger than before, more commanding. Perhaps it was the voice he used to steady frightened soldiers at Yorktown. “You are a Christian, my Eliza. You are a Christian.”

She nodded at him, vaguely, trying to get a handle on herself. She understood what he was saying, what he was asking for. Calm. Assurance that everything would be all right. Even death was not the end. He’d be with God, with their son (their son, their son, she tucked the thought away so as not to collapse on the floor) and she would see him again.

“Eliza?” A question, now.

She looked at him again, focused on his handsome face. She nodded. Forced her mouth the form a smile, weak and watery though it may have been. He needed her, needed comfort and reassurance. She’d crumble later, alone.

He motioned her over to him with a weak twitch of his wrist. She obeyed and settled at his side again, taking his hand.

“How is the pain, General?” Hosack asked.

A stuttered breath released from his mouth before he answered, “Bad. It’s bad.” 

“More?” The doctor queried.

Alexander hesitated a moment, then nodded.

The doctor shuffled around the side table before bringing over a small amber bottle. He placed four drops of liquid on her husband’s tongue. “That should help. Relax, sir.”

She gave Hosack a questioning look.

“Laudanum, ma’am,” the doctor explained.

She squeezed the palm in her hand and looked back at her husband’s sweaty, tense face. “Is there something to fan him with? He’s perspiring,” she asked.

“I’ll inquire with our host,” Hosack offered with a bow before departing the room.

Alone in the room with her husband, she stroked his face once more to draw his attention. Tears pooled in his eyes as they met with her own. She hushed him, cooed comforting nonsense, helpless in the face of his unbearable pain.

“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hush, my love,” she begged.

“It’s all my fault, Eliza. I’m such a fool.”

“No.”

“You should never have married me.”

She felt a rush of anger at that statement.

“I love you,” she all but snapped at him. He recoiled slightly against his pillow, then closed he eyes against the pain that followed. “Whatever’s happened, whatever you’ve done, nothing will change that. Nothing. You should know that by now. I love you.”

He was crying again, tears mingling with the sweat on his face. After a deep, fortifying breath, he told her, “A duel. With Burr. I…I said something during the election…and he….”

“Hush,” she whispered again.

“I couldn’t fire at him. I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

“Alexander, please. It doesn’t matter.”

“I wanted to tell you. I…I’m sorry,” he repeated, his hand twitching in hers. He was trying to squeeze, she realized, and wasn’t strong enough to grip. She squeezed back anyway.

“You are forgiven. Always.”

 

~*~

 

Alexander had a steady stream of visitors all day. For each of his friends, he opened his eyes, conversed, smiled bravely despite his pain. When they left, she watched him deflate. She saw how much the effort weakened him.

She’d asked Hosack to forbid anymore visitors. Alexander had immediately overruled her. Stubborn to the end, she’d thought. Now, he was half asleep, groggy from the heavy doses of laudanum the doctor continued to administer. Eliza didn’t think it was doing much to dull the pain, but there wasn’t much else to be done. She sat at his side, fanning his face in a feeble attempt to keep him comfortable in the stifling July afternoon.

A raised voice from downstairs caught her attention. He turned his head weakly, his half lidded eyes landing on her questioningly. She placed the fan down on the side table along with the rest of the medical supplies that were doing next to nothing. “I’ll see what that’s about, shall I?”

He nodded once. His eyes closed all the way. Her heart stopped until she saw his chest rise with breath.

She padded downstairs into the foyer, where a small group was huddled.

“Just…speak with him. Please,” David Ogden was pleading, his voice softer now.

“I’ll speak with him, sir, but I don’t see how it will change anything.”

Ogden’s eyes closed in frustration. “Please, Reverend. It’s all he’s asked for.”

He was speaking to Bishop Moore, from Trinity Church, she realized. She met the Reverend’s eyes and was surprised when he broke contact, his gaze landing on the floor guiltily. He nodded to Ogden and moved to the stairs, nodding to her as he passed without meeting her eyes again.

“Mr. Ogden?” she asked.

“I apologize for the commotion, ma’am. I hope Mr. Hamilton was not too much disturbed.”

She waved off his apology. “What is happening? Why were you shouting at the good Reverend?”

Ogden’s face crumpled as he shook his head. “Your husband made but one request after being wounded. He wished to take the Lord’s Supper. I…There has been some difficulty finding someone. It seems, because of the manner of his being injured….”

“They are refusing him communion?” Her voice came out high in her outrage.

“I’ve begged Bishop Moore to reconsider. He’s…he’s agreed to speak to Mr. Hamilton again. I can only hope your husband’s renowned powers of persuasion have not failed him yet.”

Eliza thinks of her husband’s groggy eyes and weak grip. She also thinks of how he’s managed to rally all his flagging strength for every visitor that entered his room. Yes, he’ll likely still manage to persuade the reverend. She feels sick inside, nonetheless, that the church she’d always looked to for comfort would make him use his talents to beg for this.

 

~*~

 

“Try to sleep, General,” Hosack counseled as he finished monitoring Alexander’s pulse. “Do you need any more pain relief?”

Her husband shook his head slightly. “Making me nauseated,” he mumbled, his eyes closed, already half asleep.

The doctor looked distressed at that. “I know. I…I wish there was something else….”

“It’s fine,” Alexander whispered.

Hosack nodded and squeezed his hand tightly before lowering it back onto the bed. “Then I bid you good night, sir.”

He blew out the candle and bowed to her. “I’ll be just in the next room. Wake me if he needs me.”

Eliza nodded. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the room illuminated only by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. The house seemed quiet now, although still packed beyond capacity with friends, relatives, and well-wishers.

She settled back in the uncomfortable chair she’d been given hours ago. Her eyes closed, but she knew she’d find no rest tonight. Not when every breath could be Alexander’s last.

“’liza,” he muttered in the dark.

“What is it, my love?” she asked, sitting forward, ready to run for the doctor at any hint of discomfort he voiced.

“I can’t sleep,” he whispered.

“You’re practically asleep right now,” she corrected fondly.

“Lie next to me.”

“Alexander--.”

“Please,” he begged, his voice taking on a whining quality she often heard from her children when they wanted sweets or to stay up past their bedtimes. She smiled. Forgot for a moment the terrible thing that was happening.

“I’ll hurt you,” she whispered back, voice breaking slightly.

“You won’t,” he argued.

“I can’t.”

“Fine,” he huffed. “I just won’t sleep.”

“You need rest.”

“I do.”

A beat of silence followed.

“You’re impossible,” she huffed back at him, already sliding the shoes off her feet.

“You love me,” he parried back. She could hear the smug grin in his voice.

Her heart felt like it was shattering in her chest. He sounded so…normal.

She choked on a sob.

“Eliza,” he sighed, voice going soft and serious.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffled. Tried to push the grief back down. She climbed onto the bed, careful to leave him plenty of space. She gripped his hand in hers.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” she replied.

They lapsed into silence. What else was there to say?

 

~*~

 

He slept poorly and fitfully. Every time he dropped off, he’d shift in his sleep, and the pain would wake him all over again. Hosack offered more laudanum when he came to check in every hour or so. Alexander finally acquiesced around two in the morning.

“I feel like I’m going to be sick,” he announced to her a few minutes later.

“Should I fetch a basin?” she asked, sitting up.

“No,” he mumbled, without moving his head.

“Do you want me to fetch Doctor Hosack again? Perhaps he has something to ease the nausea,” she suggested.

“No.”

She slid her hand into his, feeling useless. Helpless.

 

~*~

 

“Shh,” she whispered when Hosack opened the door an hour later.

“Sleeping?” he whispered, tip-toeing to the bed.

“For now,” she sighed. “He’s very nauseated.” 

“There’s nothing for it. It’s either nausea or pain.”

“That’s what he said.”

“Your husband is a brilliant man,” Hosack praised as he lightly pressed his fingers to Alexander’s wrist.

Looking at him in the bed with a bullet in his side, she’s not sure she can agree.

 

~*~

 

The morning light peaked through the curtains in the Bayard’s guest room. Eliza blinked owlishly at her husband. His chest still rose and fell. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling vaguely. He hadn’t moved a muscle in hours.

She could feel him slipping away from her.

Taking a steadying breath, she pushed off the pillows and examined his face. Stubble was dark against his white cheeks. He was always so fastidious about his appearance, and people would be filing in soon.

“Would you like a shave?” she whispered.

His focus moved from the ceiling to her face. “Mm,” he hummed lightly.

She took that as an affirmative. “I’ll be right back, dearest,” she said softly, squeezing his hand. Her silent plea hung in the air: _please still be here_.

She opened the door and poked her head out. No one was about upstairs, but she could hear whispered conversations from below. The house was already stirring. They’d likely be upon them at any moment.

Their host was standing on the stairwell, looking perplexed by the number of people filling his home. Eliza would have found it endearing if her life wasn’t falling apart at the seams.

“Mr. Bayard,” she called.

He looked up at her, eyes widening in panic. He thought she was going to say that Alexander was dead, she realized. She forced her lips to form a smile. “I wondered if you had a spare shaving kit? For my husband.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, of course,” he let out a nervous laugh. “Our man, never one to let his appearance slip, is he?”

She nodded, let him believe that this was at Alexander’s insistence.

He disappeared into a room for a moment, then returned with a razor, both a damp and dry towel, and some lather. “With my compliments,” he said as he thrust the items into her hands.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “If you could tell the others to wait a few minutes before beginning to come up?”

“I’ll be sure to inform them, madam.”

She slipped back into the room, hesitating in the doorway until she saw her husband’s chest rise and fall with breath. A tear slipped from her eye when she saw he still lived.

“Alexander,” she called. He didn’t move. She moved forward, putting herself in his line of sight. His sparkling blue eyes looked duller than usual, but they met hers with coherence. “I have a razor and some lather.”

He stared at her silently a moment.

“All right,” he croaked at last.

Settling beside him on the bed, she wet his face with a damp towel and  took out the brush with the lather and began to gently coat his cheeks. She’d done this for him before several times, when he was too ill to stand before a mirror. He’d always teased her, twitched away in faux concern, asked if she’d still love him after she mutilated his pretty face. Now, he stared at her silently.

 She slid the razor down his cheek in a steady motion, leaving the skin soft and smooth. The lather carried a scent, something strong, likely an expensive French luxury item. Alexander would have liked this, she thought. Her stomach dropped somewhere down near her feet a moment after. She was already thinking of him in the past tense. He was still here, still breathing, still capable of speech.

“This is a nice lather,” she commented, determined to prove to herself that her husband was still present. “I’m surprised you don’t use it.”

He swallowed thickly and closed his eyes, as if summoning the strength to speak.

“Expensive,” he managed.

“Ah. A nice treat, then,” she said, conjuring another watery smile.

“Mm,” he hummed again.

She worked in silence for a time. Then his throat worked with another swallow and his head moved just a hair so that he could meet her eyes more fully. “Try…try not to ruin…my good looks…”

A startled laugh burst out of her. He smirked in response. She leaned in, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth. He moved his head again, just slightly, to capture her lips in a full kiss.

He let out a harsh breath after. The smirk still on his lips told her it was supposed to have been a laugh. “You…have…lather…on your nose,” he managed slowly.

Later, she wishes she’d kissed him again, rather than wiping away the cream and continuing with the shave. How was she to know it would be her last private moment with her husband?

 

~*~

 

The press of people in the small bedroom made Eliza feel claustrophobic. Alexander was fading moment by moment. He hadn’t strength left to move. When he spoke, it was hardly above a whisper. Yet people still filed into the room and tried to speak with him.

Gouveneur Morris arrived just after nine o’clock and had all but collapsed at her husband’s side. “Ham?” he’d whispered, reaching out and grabbing his hand.

“Hi,” Alexander had practically mouthed in return. His lip quirked up even as his eyes fluttered closed.

“Hi,” Morris had replied. The usually jovial man had looked at Eliza with tears in his eyes and tried to explain, “I…I thought…When I heard about the duel, I didn’t think….”

Eliza had nodded her understanding and he’d stopped speaking, staring at her husband instead. He’d thought Alexander dead. The chance to see him, to hold his hand, must have seemed a miracle to him.

Morris had been followed into the room by a parade of friends and relations. At moments, as many as twenty people were packed into the small space, all weeping and praying, straining to hear any muttering from her husband.

Eliza patted Alexander’s hand tenderly and leaned close to him. “Darling, I’m going to step outside for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

His beautiful blue eyes fluttered open and met hers. He’d hummed as he exhaled to acknowledge her. She forced a smile and made her way from the room, stepping through the maze of mourners and wishing them all gone.

When she opened the door to the hallway, she nearly knocked over a small form standing just outside the door. William looked up at her fearfully. “Hi, Mama,” he said timidly.

“What are you doing?” she snapped. Angelica was supposed to be watching them. He shouldn’t be up here.

“I wanted to see Papa,” he said plaintively.

Taking a breath and trying to calm herself, she said, “Papa is very sick.” She knelt before her son and placed a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

“I know,” William replied. His lower lip quavered slightly. “Aunt Angelica said he was hurt really bad.”

“Yes,” Eliza confirmed.

“But…but I’ll be really good. I’ll be quiet. I just…I want to see Papa.”

Eliza squeezed her eyes shut as she considered. Alexander was dying. William was always the most intrepid of their children, but she knew the others were likely downstairs silently thinking the same thing. They deserved a chance to say goodbye to their father.

“Come with me, sweetheart,” she beckoned, taking the six year old by a sweaty palm.

“Mama,” he fairly whined, digging in his heels.

“Come, William,” she commanded again. “We’ll…we’ll go see Papa in a few minutes. I want to speak to you and your brothers and sisters first.”

“All right, Mama,” he agreed finally, allowing her to tug him down the stairs.

Eliza’s sister was weeping openly on a divan when she entered the Bayard’s sitting room. Her children were spread about the room. The three eldest boys were crying silently. Little Eliza was sitting in her aunt’s lap with a look of confusion wrinkling her brow. Her elder daughter was seated in the corner, staring vacantly out the window. Only baby Phil looked unmoved by the events happening upstairs.

Her heart skipped a beat as she realized her littlest boy would likely have no memory of his father.

Alexander, James, John and Eliza looked up when she walked in, as did her sister.

“Oh, my poor Eliza,” Angelica whimpered, reaching out and clasping her hand.

Eliza ignored her as she looked at each of her children.

“Mama says we can go see Papa,” William announced as she was searching for words.

All eyes in the room looked at her hopefully. “Yes, we can go see Papa,” she confirmed for them all.

She tried to explain that Alexander was very sick. She told them that they must be very quiet and very well behaved. They had all agreed immediately, even Angelica had nodded, and now the six of them trooped up the stairs in a line. Baby Phil sat comfortably on her hip, laying his little head against her shoulder as she followed them up the stairs.

Alex opened the door and entered first, the rest following closely. She motioned them forward through the mass of people and lined them up before the bed. Alexander opened his eyes as they filed in. He looked at each of his children, studying their faces, moving his head for the first time in hours.

Eliza stood before the bed and leaned down so that Phil would be close to Alexander’s face. His face crumpled as he looked at the toddler, but he mustered the strength to press his lips against the boy’s temple. He then relaxed back into the pillow and turned his face away. He was swallowing convulsively. For the first time since seeing her, he seemed to be fighting tears.

“All right,” she said, clearing her throat to unstick her voice. “Back downstairs, children. Let’s let Papa get some rest.”

They obeyed her, filing out the way they had come. Only William hesitated, his little hand gripping the duvet as he looked at his father. “I love you, Papa,” he whispered.

Alexander squeezed his eyes shut, but then turned his head slightly and opened them again. He met William’s gaze, winked, and conjured a weak smile. He had no voice now, but his lips moved, clearly forming words. “Love you,” he mouthed back.

William’s whole face lit up with a smile as he scampered out after his siblings.

 

~*~

 

In. Out. In. Out.

The simple act of breathing seemed overwhelming. The crowd of people pressed into the tiny bedroom felt stifling. She couldn’t do this. Madly, she considered running from the room, outside to…to…she didn’t know where. Her whole world was lying in the bed before her. Her world was fading, slipping through her fingers.

Tears were pouring down her face, unstoppable and ugly. She wiped at the mucus under her nose with her sleeve, caring nothing for propriety. Reaching out, she clutched her husband’s slack hand so tightly he likely would have cried out if he’d been conscious.

He’d fallen asleep a few minutes ago. His breathing was getting shallower, his chest rising only slightly and taking longer to refill with breath. A tell-tale rattle accompanied his latest inhale. Eliza let out a whimper and leaned forward.

“Please,” she whispered into his hair, her voice quavering and watery. “I can’t do this. Please don’t make me do this.”

Minutes stretched by like hours and disappeared like seconds. The world seemed to be holding its breath with her. She was happy to have time freeze here. She’d gladly spent the rest of her life stooped over this bed, her husband’s warm weight beneath her, feeling his chest expand slowly with air.

She felt a puff of breath against her cheek. She waited to feel his chest rise again. She held her breath stubbornly, waiting for him. His chest wasn’t rising. She sucked in a breath. In. Out. In. Out.

“He’s gone,” Doctor Hosack whispered.

Eliza pressed her trembling lips to Alexander’s hair line, trailing kisses along his forehead. She kept her hand in his and hoped that he’d felt that until he’d gone. She dropped her head onto the pillow beside him, pressed her hot face against it, close to his ear, and whispered harshly, “I love you. I love you.”

The doctor was hovering in her peripheral vision. Eliza straightened from the bed and forced her hand to let go of her husband’s. In. Out. In. Out. Breathe. _Please breathe_ , she thought desperately.   

“Why don’t we step outside, Mrs. Hamilton?” the doctor suggested softly. The others in the room had filed out already.

Eliza ignored him and went to the bedside table, shoving passed the useless instruments and remedies as she sought a pair of scissors. The room was blurry through her tears. She wiped at her nose again, blinking her eyes several times until she could see the instruments. She brought the scissors to the bed and sat once more.

She let her fingers tangle in the hair at his temples. The strands were silky soft. She selected a generous portion and cut swiftly, parting the hairs from her husband’s temple and clutching them in a fist.

“Where…” she began, her voice shaking. “Where will he go?”

She felt the doctor’s eyes on her, regarding her carefully. Perhaps he was wondering if she was asking a philosophical question. He answered practically instead. “He’ll need to be taken downtown for an autopsy. I’ll go with him, Mrs. Hamilton. He’ll not be alone. Not for a moment.”

Eliza nodded vaguely, frozen to her seat. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t leave this room. When she left, this would be real. Her Hamilton would be gone. He’d be taken downtown and sliced open before a room of strangers. She’d never see his face again, never taste his lips, never hold him close on a cold night.

A sob ripped out of her and she clutched the hair in her fist tighter.

“Come, Mrs. Hamilton,” the doctor cooed softly, taking hold of her elbow and leading her from the room. They turned into a different guest room. “Perhaps you should lie down. I…I am so sorry for your loss.”

The words hit her like a punch to the stomach. It was the first of many, many times that the phrase would be used. She hated it already. She hadn’t misplaced him. He’d been ripped away from her. Stolen. Eliza felt a hole, a tangible ache inside, worse than if she’d lost a limb.

She collapsed onto her knees and hauled in a breath. In. Out. In. Out.

“Would…would you  like me to send someone to you? Perhaps Mrs. Church, or…” Hosack asked from the hallway.

“Mr. Morris,” she requested. “Send Mr. Morris.”

She stayed on the floor and pressed her hands together in prayer as she waited for her husband’s old friend to come to her. He arrived within a minute. She could hear the distinctive tap of his wooden leg on the floorboards as he entered the room.

“Mrs. Hamilton,” he greeted, his voice sounding rough, as though scrapped over sandpaper. She thought perhaps she should say something comforting to him. Thank him for his years of close friendship with her husband. She’d have to find words for all Alexander’s old friends for the funeral.

The funeral. She leaned forward, gasping for air at the thought. She’d have to bury her husband. “I can’t…I _can’t_...”

“You can’t do what, Mrs. Hamilton?” Morris asked, kneeling at her side.

“I can’t… breathe. I feel like I can’t breathe,” she gasped again, tears soaking her cheeks and mingling with the mucus running from her nose again.

A big warm palm rested on top of her back. “I…I…” Morris stuttered helplessly. “What can I do?”

“Pray with me, Mr. Morris?” she requested.

“Of course,” he agreed immediately.

“Pray that the Lord will take me as well. Pray that he’ll let me go with my husband. And…and if He is kind enough to grant me my prayer, would you promise to be a father to my children? You were such a kind friend to my husband. They will need someone to look out for them….”

He didn’t answer her. She forced herself to look up at him. Fat tears were running down his face as well. She couldn’t deal with his grief. She couldn’t even deal with her own. She closed her eyes and prayed fervently. May the Lord have mercy on her and strike her down. May he spare her from another minute without her beloved Alexander.

 

~*~

 

“Eliza?”

She curled up into a smaller ball in her bed as Angelica’s voice carried through the door.

“Eliza? Are you getting ready?”

She felt weak and dehydrated. Her eyes ached from the tears that refused to stop forming. Every time she thought she was finished, more would well up. The salt made her face feel dry and sore. She hadn’t bathed in two days. She had barely risen from her bed at all in that time.

“Eliza?” Angelica was tapping at the door now. “I’m coming in.”

She stubbornly pulled the blankets up over her head as her sister opened the door. She didn’t want to see anyone. She wanted to lie here until she died.

Her sister’s weight settled on the mattress beside her. A hand stroked over her back through the covers. More tears leaked lazily from the corners of her eyes at that gentle touch. How she wanted it to be _his_ hand on her back.

“Eliza,” Angelica cooed softly, “You must dress and clean up a bit. The service is starting in a few hours. We’ll need time to get to the church.”

She didn’t move. She held her breath in the stale air of her cocoon. Her stubborn lungs insisted on drawing more air. Before she’d climbed into bed, she’d pulled Hamilton’s night shirt from his laundry pile. It was too large for her, but it smelled like him. At least it had, until a day ago. Now, her own scent threatened to overwhelm it. Still, under the covers as she was, the last remnants of his scent wafted up to her. She hugged the fabric against her and wished she could block out the world.

“My sweet sister,” Angelica sighed. “You must get ready, dearest.”

She swallowed to wet her throat and croaked, “I’m not going.”

Angelica’s hand froze on her back. “You have to go.”

“No I don’t,” Eliza replied, her voice rough from disuse and constant tears.

The blankets were pulled back from her face, and Angelica stared down at her. Her sister seemed to recoil slightly at the sight of her. Two days she’d laid here, crying and praying for death. She’d fall asleep for brief snatches of time, but her beloved, sainted husband appeared to her in every dream. She’d wake each time with a whine of pain and cry all over again. No mirror was required to tell her she was pale, with red rimmed, dark circled, wild eyes and red cheeks.

“You’ll regret not going,” Angelica insisted.

She wouldn’t regret it. In fact, she couldn’t bear the thought of it. How could she watch his casket be lowered into the ground?

“You would have him be buried with no family in attendance?”

Eliza flinched at that.

“The boys may go, if they so desire,” she decided finally.

Angelica looked pained. Eliza closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear witnessing the grief of others just now. Her grief alone threatened to drown her.

At last, she sister rose and left the room. Eliza curled onto her side and pressed her face into her pillow as she flung the blankets over her head again.

“I want my Hamilton,” she whimpered to no one.

 

~*~

 

Her bedroom door creaked open. She opened her eyes and found the room was dark. She’d slept, apparently. Alexander’s face hovered in her memory, his smirk quirking his lips just so. She closed her eyes to recapture the image.

Little footsteps padded uncertainly across the floor. The blankets pulled back and the mattress shifted with the weight of someone small climbing into the bed. Thin arms wrapped around her waist.

“Mama,” William sniffled miserably.

Her heart broke even more. She hadn’t thought that possible. It was already shattered into tiny shards. Her child’s cry made her feel that her heart was being beaten into dust.

She wrapped her arm around her little boy and held him close. He snuggled against her, tucking his knees up to his chest and fitting himself against her stomach. She stroked his back and thought of her precious babies. Her Hamilton’s precious babies.

The Lord wasn’t going to answer her prayers, she accepted at last. She would have to go on without her husband for as long as He saw fit. Seven children were now fatherless and in pain. Tomorrow, she would rise from this bed. She would make breakfast, and read to them from the bible, and see that they attended to their studies. It would be Sunday. The Lord’s day.

Life would go on. Tomorrow. An endless parade of tomorrows, until at last she would see him again.


	2. Two Years Later

**Two Years Later…**

 

“He’s proposed,” Eliza sighed, cradling her head in her hands as she sat beside her beloved older sister. She’d thrown the letter, delivered not five minutes ago by special messenger, on the table between them, face down so as not to remind her of the clumsy attempts at conveying admiration and regard.

“Well, is there something wrong with that?” Angelica asked, sipping at her tea as if this wasn’t a catastrophe in the making.

Eliza glared at her. She knew very well there was.

“No,” Angelica said sternly. She placed her tea cup on the table and sat forward. “We should talk about this. Seriously. You’re only forty-nine years old, and likely to see a fair few more years before you’re through. You need money. You have a four year old, a six year old and an eight year old, all of whom would benefit from a father. Especially William.”

“They have a father,” Eliza whispered.

“Hamilton’s gone, Betsey.”

Eliza glared again.

“I’m sorry, my dear sister. I really am. You know how much I loved Hamilton. We all loved him. We all miss him. But life goes on. It’s been two years. You’ve found a good man, one who will treat you well. Perhaps a bit of comfort, companionship and help with the children isn’t the worst idea.”

She stared into her lap, saying nothing.

“Just think about it,” Angelica advised.

Eliza forced herself to meet her sister's eyes and nod. The rest of afternoon tea dragged on intolerably, and Angelica left hours sooner than she normally would. They spoke no more on the subject, but Angelica need not speak for her to hear the final plea in her eyes as she left the Grange.

After seeing her sister out, Eliza looked in on the children, then collected the letter from the parlor table and locked herself in her husband’s study. The comforting green walls and the musty scent of law books enveloped her, made her feel safe. She smoothed the letter out on the writing desk to review it again.

A terrible love letter, she thought unkindly. A terrible letter of any sort. He’d resorted to cheap clichés from his opening line onward. Then again, she was utterly spoiled.

She didn’t love this man. She liked him tolerably. He was kind and decent. A widower with two grown children of his own. Angelica was probably right that she should seriously consider his offer. He’d provide for her and the children comfortably,  and be the firm father William so clearly needed.

“What should I do?” she asked the empty office.

Placing a hand to her breast, she felt the little pouch she’d worn for the last two years. Though she hardly needed to see the documents within to know their contents, she pulled the pouch out from beneath her dress and unfolded the older, yellowed parchment. A love poem from her dashing Colonel Hamilton entitled ‘Why I Sighed.’ She traced a finger over his beautiful handwriting, closing her eyes to picture his long fingers stained with ink moving swiftly across a page.

Those wonderful days at Morristown—what she would give to be back there once more, full of breathless anticipation for a visit from her charming suitor. When he’d proposed to her, kneeling in the late February snow with cheeks bright pink from cold, smiling goofily at her as he asked her to take his name, she’d thought she’d die of bliss.

She’d have to change her name. The thought hit her like a bucket of cold water. If she agreed to this second proposal, she’d have to change her name again.

~*~

Angelica arrived for tea the next day, her clever dark eyes landing immediately on the letter clutched in Eliza’s hands. “Have you considered it?”

“I have a favor to ask,” Eliza replied.

Angelica inclined her head.

“Would you watch the children for a few hours? I’m going into town on business.”

She could tell her sister was dying to ask what sort of business was bringing her to town. Instead, she held her tongue and nodded. Eliza thanked her, tied her cloak on, and moved swiftly to the waiting carriage.

She in fact did have business to attend to in town. She needed to draw some funds from the account her husband’s friends had created after his death to keep the family from bankruptcy and ruin. William’s school needed money for the next term and the boy had already outgrown his new shoes in a sudden growth spurt.

She efficiently dispatched her errands and went on to her true reason for wanting to be in the city today. Trinity Church stood tall and beautiful in the distance as she walked towards it. She walked swiftly past the pews down the aisle and arrived in the cemetery.

The newly erected marble monument towered over the other graves in the small churchyard. She settled herself in front of it, running her fingers across his name fondly. Placing her palm to the earth, she began to speak.

 “I have news,” she whispered. “William’s been in trouble at school lately. He’s growing like a weed as well, I can hardly give him clothes before he’s outgrown them. And after we just finished going through this with John. Alexander is preparing for the bar. He’s nervous. James keeps drilling him, but he’s trying to get ready for finals himself. Can you believe he’s graduating already?”

She paused, as if waiting for an answer.

“Angelica learned a new piece on the piano the other day. A duet, although no one in the house is proficient enough to play the other part. The babies are well, happy and healthy.”

She took a breath.

“As for me, I…I’ve had a proposal. Angelica thinks I should accept. Shall I read you the letter he wrote, my dearest angel?”

She read the awkward missive aloud, with added commentary, her free hand stroking the blades of grass as if carding through her husband’s hair.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she whispered to him when she was through reading. “I know it would be the smart thing. But how can I do it? How can I give up your name? Allow that man into _our_ home, into _your_ office? Or, worse, move in with him? Abandon our house?

“Would it be wrong to do the stupidly noble thing when I have so many little mouths to feed?” She laughed a little derisively after asking that. “You would probably be the wrong person to listen to on that point.

“What I’d like to do is marry my dashing penniless Colonel once more. So if you could just come back to me….” She felt a sob bubbling up as she clenched her fist around the grass in her hand, and she pleaded, voice cracking, “Come back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because what this really needed was more angst, right? I've just been thinking about how unusual it was that Eliza never remarried. Second marriages were very common, and it certainly would have helped her financial woes if nothing else. The fact that she chose to remain his widow for fifty years rather than marry someone else is striking and heartbreakingly romantic.  
> Anyway, kudos/comments always appreciated! Thanks for reading!


	3. 1806

Eliza frowned down at the column of numbers. Mentally recalculating to check her math, she sighed. The budget for the New York Orphan Asylum was going to be worryingly tight unless they received some substantial donations soon. She scratched her nose absently, then let out a breath of laughter when she realized she had a smudge of ink on her thumb from running it down along the column. No wonder Alexander had near permanent stain along the side of his thumb.

The smile remained as she thought of her husband.

“I don’t like it,” Alexander had declared when she announced her intention of assisting Mrs. Isabella Graham with her Society the Relief of Widows with Small Children, the precursor to her daughter Joanna’s efforts with orphans.

They were lying beside each other in bed. Soft candlelight flicked beside them, still lit while he studied the book held loosely in his hands. Eliza recalled turning to look at him quickly.

“Why not?” she’d asked, taken aback. He was very charitably minded, and especially so towards children. When she’d told him her plans, she never expected him to object. Arguments spun through her mind: he couldn’t really believe a few hours for charity would affect the children or the household, and, honestly, how could he even presume to tell her what she could and could not do, after all he’d put her through recently?

He’d looked over at her with a grave expression. “Because that may just be enough to push you into sainthood, Mrs. Hamilton.”

She’d let out a surprised laugh.

He’d placed the book on the side table and rolled closer to her, placing a tender kiss to her lips. “I’m working very hard to try to claw my way into Heaven, but I’ve no hope of achieving sainthood. If you do, we’ll never see each other.”

“What if I promise to visit you, even if you are just a lowly angel?” she’d asked, wrapping her arm around his waist to tug him closer.

His brow wrinkled in consideration. “Well, then, I suppose I’ll allow it. But only if you promise.”

“I promise,” she echoed. She’d then rolled on top of him, kissing him soundly.

“Eliza?” Her head popped up from the books, roused from her memories by Joanna Bethune in the doorway.

“Oh, Joanna,” she gasped, pressing her hand to her breast. “You startled me.”

“I’m sorry,” her young friend apologized. “You seemed quite engrossed in your work.”

She smiled tightly. “I was trying to balance these books. A task that proves rather challenging when there is no money. I find myself growing more sympathetic to my husband’s old complaints by the day.”

Joanna nodded. As the founder of the organization, she was well aware of its financial plight. “Well, you’ll have to lay it aside for a little while. Your son just arrived to escort you to City Hall.”

Eliza’s shoulders sagged at the news. She’d managed to push that particular outing from her mind. John Trumbull had finally finished the portrait of her husband he’d started two years before, and the mayor had decided to hold a special unveiling ceremony. As Alexander’s widow, she was expected to attend.

“I’m sure it won’t be all bad,” Joanna added, trying to cheer her up.

“An afternoon with politicians? And Republicans, no less?” she said, raising a brow. Joanna laughed. Eliza pushed back the desk and tried to raise her spirits, outwardly at least. “I suppose it will give me an opportunity to press some of our more privileged citizens for donations. They’ll hardly be in a position to refuse me.”

Joanna kissed her on the cheek as she passed through the doorway. “Best of luck,” she wished.

Eliza wiped her stained thumb on her black gown as she walked down the narrow staircase, shaking her head when the ink remained stubbornly in place. She expected to see James waiting in the foyer for her, but he was nowhere to be seen. The puzzled expression on her face was quickly replaced with a smile when she heard children’s laughter emanating from the next room. Her son had inherited his father’s charm, his political ambitions, and, it seemed, his love of children. She smiled when she saw her son on the floor with three young orphans climbing atop him.

“Oh,” he said, standing up quickly when he spotted her in the doorway. “Are you ready, Mama?”

She nodded, watching fondly as the three children groaned. “I’m sure James will be happy to come back to play soon. Won’t you, sweetheart?”

James nodded enthusiastically to the children. “Yeah, of course. I’ll be back,” he promised.

“Good day, Mrs. Hamilton,” one child wished as she turned from the doorway.

“Good day, John. I’ll see you again tomorrow,” she promised.

Her son offered his arm as they set out to the waiting carriage. He assisted her in, then settled on the seat in front of her. “Are you ready?”

“I suppose so.” She smoothed down her skirts and smiled at him. “It’s kind of you to accompany me.” 

“I don’t mind. It’s a good opportunity to meet with men in government. Mr. Morris promised to introduce me to several influential people,” James assured her.

Her budding politician, she smiled, letting her gaze turn to the passing scenery.

A young couple was passing by as the carriage came to a stop at an intersection. The young man made a face, eliciting a laugh from his companion. The young woman adjusted her hold on his arm and nestled closer to his side. Eliza watched for a moment until the ache within her forced her to look back to the carriage interior. James smiled weakly at her, and she returned the expression.

The ride passed quickly, and City Hall bustled with activity when they arrived. Gouverneur Morris met them at the door, dressed resplendently. He moved slowly towards her, leaning heavily on his walking stick as he maneuvered down the stairs.

“I fear you’re about to enter the lion’s den,” Morris apologized when he reached her side. “I’ve not seen so many Demos at once in quite some time. I wouldn’t lend my presence to such a function for anyone less dear to me than your husband.”

“I appreciate your support,” she told him sincerely.

Given who had organized this event, Eliza couldn’t claim surprise at the guest list. When her husband died, both parties were eager to outperform the other in shows of grief (at least, those in New York. Mr. Jefferson and his Southerners were another matter entirely.). That Dewitt Clinton would try to use Alexander for political gain even now despite his uncle, George Clinton’s unceasing vitriol towards her husband did not shock her in the least. She took a breath to collect herself, and made her way inside.

Everyone was dressed in their best and conversing gaily in the beautiful space. Servants passed by with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Her eye went immediately to the large black curtain hanging on the wall over what she presumed to be her husband’s new portrait.

“I do hope you’ll approve,” Mr. Trumbull said, coming up alongside her with two glasses of champagne in hand. She accepted the glass he held out to her, but didn’t take a sip.

“I’m sure you did very well,” she replied.

He inclined his head. “I’m indebted to you for lending me the Ceracchi bust so that I had an accurate model for my work.”

She nodded to acknowledge his thanks.

“How have you been, Mrs. Hamilton?”

Forcing a smile, she answered, “I’ve been well. Very busy. Have I told you about my work with the New York Orphan Asylum?”

After an hour of socializing, and several promises from the men around her to make sizable donations to the orphans, the mayor gave a short speech and the black curtain was dropped to reveal the portrait. Eliza stared at it for a long moment. Technically flawless, she assessed distantly. She recognized the strong chin, blue eyes and aristocratic nose. But his expression was wrong: blank and lifeless. No humor sparkled in his eyes; no smile graced his lips.

“My nose is too big,” she remembered Alexander complaining at a different function, years earlier, when James Sharples had completed a portrait of him.

“It is not,” she’d argued, laughing. “I think it’s a wonderful likeness.”

“I think it is, too. That’s the problem. _My_ nose is too big,” he replied, lifting a hand to the offending feature self-consciously.

“It is not,” she repeated, laughing harder as she leaned over to kiss him. “Your nose is perfect.”

“You can’t be trusted on the matter. You love me too much,” he’d replied with a smirk.

“I suppose that is true,” she agreed, nuzzling her nose against his.

His attention had turned back to the portrait. “Do you really like it?”

“Very handsome,” she assured him.

Not only was it the best likeness of her husband ever done, in her opinion, but Sharples had captured something more. A subtle smile curled at his lips and his eyes sparkled with mischief. A perfect rendering of her beautiful, silly husband.

That portrait hung in a gallery in Philadelphia for a short time, before being purchased by Maurice de Talleyrand and taken to France. She hadn’t given it much more thought after that, blessed as she was to see her dear husband in person, until his passing. She’d woken up in a cold sweat one dark December night that year, convinced she was forgetting Alexander’s face. Was that cluster of freckles to the right of his nose or the left? And what precise shade of blue had his eyes been?

She’d risen from bed, wrapped herself in a dressing gown, and made her way downstairs into her husband’s dark office. The room was freezing, closed off from the rest of the house with no fire to warm it, but she found the familiar scent of ink and books comforting. She took a sheet of paper and some ink from his desk and began to write. She’d written to anyone she could think of who might know where it was now, panicked and begging for that portrait that had captured his spirit along with his likeness.

At last, after nearly a year, a crate was delivered from Paris along with a note.

“[ _O_ ] _n seeing it I fear your tender and afflicted heart will bleed, but tears will assuage these pangs, and my tears will flow with yours_ ,” Théophile Cazenove had replied on behalf of Monsieur de Talleyrand. “ _May it bring comfort to the wife of the man whose genius and firmness have probably created the greatest part of the United States, and whose amiable qualities, great good sense, and instruction have been a pleasure to his own friends._ ”*

“What do you think?” Trumbull asked, taking the place beside her once more.

“Very well done,” she lied, giving the man another false smile.

She left soon after.

“Are you all right, Mama?” James asked, helping her into the carriage.

“Oh, yes, darling,” she smiled. “Just a little fatigued. I’ve had a long week.”

She was tired, she realized, when the carriage finally rattled back to the house. Working with young children was difficult, physical labor, and she wasn’t getting any younger. When she wasn’t with the children, she had been working on fundraising and pouring over the books.

After checking in on her children, she went to her bedroom and lied down atop the covers, closing her eyes and soaking in the quiet. With a sigh, she adjusted onto her side, looking over at the empty space beside her.

She turned her gaze up to the wall over Alexander’s side of the bed. His portrait smiled out at some distant point, young and beautiful forever here in their room. When the crate had arrived from France, she’d ordered it up to her bedroom even before opening it. Several days went by before she could bear to look upon his smiling face. At last, she’d opened it, and decided to hang it in their room, facing the bed, that his face might still be the last she saw at night and the first thing she saw upon waking each day.

She gazed at him for a long moment.

“I miss you,” she whispered, before closing her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Theophile Cazenove to Elizabeth Hamilton, 10 September 1805, as printed in The Intimate Life of Alexander Hamilton, by Alan McLane Hamilton. 
> 
> I've been toying with this idea for awhile, and especially thinking of it on the anniversary of Hamilton's death. Eliza sent a request for the James Sharples profile in December of 1804, and it took about a year for her to actually get it. She considered it the best likeness of Hamilton. I'm not sure where she ultimately hung it, but the fact that she remembered it years later after losing him and wanted it back just breaks my heart. 
> 
> John Trumbull completed his portrait of Hamilton in 1806, basing it on the Ceracchi bust. That portrait is the one most familiar to us today, appearing on the ten dollar bill.
> 
> [The Smithsonian National Portrait Galley](http://npg.si.edu/portraits) has a great collection of Hamilton portraits if you search his name in the "Search the collection" bar. Links to the portraits mentioned here are below: 
> 
> [James Sharples (1796)](http://npg.si.edu/media/7000100A_1.jpg)
> 
> [John Trumbell (1806)](http://npg.si.edu/media/7900478A_2.jpg)
> 
> [Ceracchi bust (1794)](http://npg.si.edu/media/6600056A_1.jpg)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading. As always, feedback heartily appreciated!


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